


I'll cut your little heart out, cause you made me cry.

by heart_nouveau



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Hate Sex, Power Dynamics, Submission, aand all that good stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-28 23:50:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heart_nouveau/pseuds/heart_nouveau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They fought to see who could leave more marks, it seemed. And the woman who cried out in pain first would be the one who lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll cut your little heart out, cause you made me cry.

“Seated on her gold-and-crimson high seat beneath the Iron Throne, Cersei could feel a growing tightness in her neck. _Must_ , she thought. _She dares say “must” to me._ She itched to slap the Tyrell girl across the face. _She should be on her knees, begging for my help. Instead, she presumes to tell her rightful queen what she must do_.”  
  
                                                                                                                                                                                –Cersei, _A Feast for Crows_

There was no one, not a single person Cersei would have liked to spend time with _less_ than her son’s newest betrothed. No one but the girl who meant to steal her son away from her forever, along with the throne Cersei had waited for half her lifetime and a series of ineffectual kings to claim.

A few months prior she would have thought that a difficult judgment to make. She would have been convinced that out of all the idiots who surrounded her, she’d be hard pressed to choose the worst. But _this_ was different. The Tyrell girl had risen up out of the South to become the chief thing rankling Cersei, worrying her like a sliver of bone stuck in her teeth, threatening her with every smile and sweetened phrase. And this aggressor, coming in with her skimpy southron dresses, spoke a language that Cersei struggled to decode at first even as Cersei’s son responded instantly with a roused, animal glitter in his eyes. That, at first, was the worst of it.

Joffrey’s first betrothed had been different—excruciatingly innocent, yes, but malleable in all the most critical ways. But this one was something new altogether. Cersei had been forced into accepting her, but she didn’t trust this girl. _No._ Not for an instant.

On the increasing number of occasions they had to socialize, she traded words with the girl, clipped, cold, and burning with the edge of her underlying dislike. She knew what this girl was about, underneath it all—oh, she knew. And it was only a matter of time until she figured out exactly how to make Margaery Tyrell show it.

 _A girl who dresses like that must know about sex. She_ _’_ _s no innocent, that one._

“You must be able to give him heirs,” was what she said at last, after a conversation of infuriating banality in which she had tried to sniff out any weaknesses at all. Everything she’d tried to say, every knife she’d tried to twist into soft underbelly, had been frustrated by a slick turn of phrase and a smile. Cersei thought, gritting her teeth, that she had never seen a woman so promiscuous with her smiles.

Her son’s fiancée’s eyes gleamed. (Let her play the innocent for everyone else—Cersei saw that defiance every time Margaery spoke.) “I think I’ll be able to handle him, Your Grace.” Her little mouth twisted prettily as she said it, and Cersei’s throat tightened with anger.

The nerve. The girl was trying to make a mockery of her. Cersei clenched her jaw so tightly that it ached, but she couldn’t hold back her furious urge. Her hand flew out and slapped the girl across the face, as if that could shock the insolence right off.

Margaery’s mouth dropped open, that pretty smile knocked loose for once. She was startled, if not really hurt, and her momentary loss of composure was like an electric shock, feeding Cersei’s jagged anger.

Cersei gripped Margaery by the bare shoulders, violent, pulling her closer. She could feel the rage seeping white-hot at the edges of her eyes, coloring her vision, making her want nothing more than to crush, destroy. But what she did, suddenly, was even more surprising.

If she hadn’t kissed the Tyrell girl, Cersei didn’t know what might have happened. She had meant to intimidate, overwhelm, and at first her son’s betrothed went stiff in her arms, like a swoon. But after that initial blush of surprise, Margaery’s eyes cracked open with a gleam of knowing. She met Cersei’s own eyes with a bright look, mouth slightly pushed open by Cersei’s probing fingers—and she didn’t struggle to get free.

 _Gods, have you no shame, girl?_ Disgusted, she broke away, pulling at Margaery’s clothing even as she pushed the girl away, grabbing fistfuls of fabric like a child in a tantrum. But Margaery’s expression as she fell back into her own chair said that she’d been expecting this, and understood. Her heart-shaped little face was alight with some undefined, bold emotion even as her chest heaved from their maddening kiss.

Seeing this made Cersei furious. It was if she had spilled the contents of a glass, only to pick up and find it brimming even fuller than before.

She grabbed for Margaery, then. But to her surprise, Margaery fought back.

 

 

 

She hadn’t expected it the first time, nor had she meant for it to happen again. But it did. It happened again—and again, and again after that. For, to her eternal frustration and total rage, no matter how hard Cersei tried to win on this new battlefield she and her younger rival had erected, she found that she couldn’t.

That first time, she made Margaery kneel before her. “Kneel,” she ordered, wrathful, but only as strong as a woman could be. She’d said it mostly to see if Margaery could do it. There were no rules in this territory, now. It was only a battle of wills. “Get on your knees.”

To her eternal surprise, Margaery complied with eyes wide and guileless, readily obedient but in no way frightened. Cersei scanned the girl’s face for any shred of fear, but if it were there, she could not find it. She could taste her own rising bile, her stifled disgust. _So that is that how it's going to be, Margaery? Is that how it's going to be?_

And after that it was easy. She was so angry the actions completed themselves: spreading her legs and hiking up her skirts, pushing the girl’s head forcefully to where it needed to go. Where it belonged.

In that instant that she had Margaery pressed up between her legs, she thought that perhaps this was how men felt when they came to blows, releasing their anger physically rather than through barbed words, the hallmark of women’s warfare. She liked it—the physical release, the submission. It was of course only the inferior female version of what she’d always wanted. But then, she was used to settling for that even as much as she disliked to.

She twisted handfuls of Margaery’s hair in her hands viciously tight as the girl worked. It was the symbolic nature of it that made her hot, the humiliation… she hadn’t really expected to find physical pleasure in what she’d demanded (it had never been good with anyone but Jaime, anyway). But Margaery was talented with her mouth even when it was pushed so hard up against Cersei’s cunt that it must have been difficult to breathe—and, the queen reflected with a bitterness that wasn’t quite as caustic as usual, the appetite Margaery was showing for her task didn’t seem very humiliated at all. Somehow that made Cersei even angrier, and somehow _that_ made her come all the more quickly.

The queen panted as she finished, choking up the air with short incoherent sounds of release.

“Your Grace?”

Margaery looked up at her, eyes shining, mouth glistening wet, submissive in posture only. All of Cersei’s triumphant feeling evaporated, and suddenly the darkness and bitter rage was roiling in her stomach again. Weak with the throes of her orgasm, Cersei growled and rose from her chair. She put back her shoulders and held herself erect and high, feigning the queenly composure she, after only a few moments, hadn't managed to regain.

“Leave me,” she said, imperious. It was a hollow threat and they both knew it. Margaery pushed the back of her hand across her reddened mouth with a smirk and Cersei thought, with a flash of rage, _Oh, you don’t know what you’ve started, you little bitch._

 

 

 

After that, it was war.

Once they’d abandoned chairs and started fucking in Cersei’s bed, the bitch left marks, scratches up Cersei’s back. The queen collected bruised plum marks on her skin that ached at the brush of fingers over them the next day, nipples aching at the contact with clothing as she dressed. It was as if she’d had a wild creature in her bed.

Cersei had to be grudgingly respectful of that. She hadn’t thought that Margaery had it in her.

Gods, she resented everything about that girl, from the petal-pink folds of her young sex to her pert, rosy nipples. The second time they’d entered the battlefield, Cersei had stripped the younger queen with a sudden madness buzzing in her head, removing the wanton gown that showed almost all of Margaery’s breasts and body, wanting to see if the girl really was so beautiful for all that was advertised. The answer was yes. Margaery’s perfect small breasts bloomed pink at the tips, and her waist curved in like a harp.

It had been even more frustrating to see the girl’s reaction. Margaery had only stood there with a frank look in her eyes, unashamed of her nudity when she should have cried out in shame and tried to cover herself, driving the blood high in Cersei’s cheeks to see her humiliation. But it never quite went that way, with Margaery. It never quite went the way Cersei wanted.

The queen kept her own clothes on, for the most part. Only when Margaery was insistent and pulled at the laces of Cersei’s gown with her hot little fingers did Cersei allow herself to fall into a state of undress. Then Margaery would pull down the front of the queen's gown to teeth and mouth at her breasts with hot appetite like some overgrown, viperous child, until Cersei hissed and pushed the girl off.

They fought to see who could leave more marks, it seemed. And the woman who cried out in pain first would be the one who lost.

If only it were really that easy.

 

 

  

She tried so hard to hold, pin the girl down like a butterfly wriggling on the block (remembering, with a strange twinge of nostalgia, how she had always been a torturer of animals when young). But Margaery took whatever Cersei could come up with and then some. She wasn’t scared, and that made Cersei afraid. It made her, also, bolder… and much more willing to go to extremes for the reaction she craved.

“Open your legs,” she said into the girl’s blushing wet mouth, in a growl of a kiss.

Margaery, already stripped completely, didn’t acquiesce quickly enough, and Cersei nudged her knees open with cruel impatience. The Tyrell girl let out a gasp when Cersei pushed her, hard, onto her back and thrust her legs apart, knees splayed open and jerking as Cersei gave her exposed sex a smack with an open palm as punishment. “Next time, you’ll be faster,” Cersei gritted out, administering another short smack with the fingers of her hand, and the girl squealed. That was good. So, feeling the blood rising to her face, Cersei did it again. 

“Turn over. On your hands and knees,” she ordered. This time Margaery was quick to comply.

In short order, the girl’s backside bloomed pink and red from the blows Cersei had dealt it with the flat of her hand, and the back of her hairbrush after that (she liked the hairbrush; it seemed to hurt more), until Margaery cried out, “Oh, please”—but had been soaking wet when Cersei slipped two fingers into her cunt, _the little slut, of course she is._

Margaery, now, was on all fours on the bed, behind in the air, face pushed into the coverlet as Cersei knelt over her fully clothed and fucked her with her fingers, almost too hard.

 _She makes it so easy—so_ easy _for me to do these things to her._

Breathing shallowly, Cersei dragged a hand under Margaery’s hips and flipped her over, because she wanted to see the girl cry. Margaery’s face, reddened with exertion and arousal, with tears standing in the corners of her sooty-lashed eyes, grew even redder when Cersei wrapped one hand around her neck and squeezed, just a little.

It was so deliciously tempting, to think how satisfying it would be to choke off those loud animal cries Margaery was letting out as Cersei shoved her fingers up her cunt. Margaery’s skin was flushed all over, rosy nipples standing at aroused attention, forehead crowned in a sheen of sweat. One little hand was rubbing her own cunt fervently, bringing herself off in time to Cersei’s painful thrusts.

But then Cersei tightened her hand, and the girl’s eyes widened until the whites showed, like a startled horse.

A moment passed, and the only sound was her own ragged breathing and Margaery’s struggle to draw breath. And then—Cersei loosened her grip with a feeling that was maybe a little like guilt. Even though that look in Margaery’s eyes, of real fear, _that_ was it, what she needed—she stopped. She was only joking.

Even she knew that she couldn’t kill the little bitch. The Queen Regent being discovered abed with her son’s dead, strangled wife… no, no, that would not be good. Nor would it be good to be discovered at all, regardless of the state of Margaery’s life. Cersei knew that she would fare worse, the decaying older degenerate, all predatory claws and advances, if it were to come out. No, Margaery wouldn’t come out clean as a day lily either—the stain of sex on her virginal bloom would only confirm what people had been whispering since the death of her first husband—but Cersei would be the one who suffered more.

 _Of course I would have worse treatment._ She was, after all, the one with more to lose. _Dually cursed— old_ and _female._ The thought made her redouble her thrusts, every muscle in her body tensing with anger. She released her chokehold completely and dealt Margaery a frustrated little slap around the side of the face.

With renewed air, Margaery tensed, chest arching, and finished with a gasping, screaming exhale. The sound of it set Cersei’s teeth on edge. With a short angry pant, she yanked her hand out of the girl’s cunt and pulled the girl’s hair back with an angry jerk. “You have no idea,” she leaned down to hiss into Margaery’s ear, collaring the girl under the chin with her other hand, “how much I hate you.”

Margaery let out a gurgle of a laugh that turned into a choked intake of breath as Cersei jerked harder, running her thumb along the exposed underside of Margaery’s jaw with menacing ease. But the light in the girl’s eyes showed that this was just another game that she knew how to play.

“Oh, I think I do,” Margaery whispered back, gasping a bit, her little breasts heaving with the breath of her victory and release, and once again Cersei had the furious feeling that she had been outmaneuvered at her own game. Would she never win?

Suddenly Margaery raised her body off the bed and caught Cersei’s face in both hands, kissing her so ferociously and hotly that Cersei lost her breath. Margaery sucked on Cersei’s tongue and, when she pulled away, bit at Cersei’s bottom lip so hard that she broke the skin. Caught off guard, Cersei gave her a hard reflexive shove away, but her nerves were jangling. She tasted blood, salty in her mouth, and warm. Bringing a hand to her bleeding lip, she glared at Margaery, who now lay back on the bed wearing nothing the unmistakable beginnings of a smile.

“I really,” repeated the girl, smile spreading on that sly mouth of hers, body marked with red palm prints and scratches and streaked with wet release, naked and glorious, “ _really_ think I do.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Girl With One Eye' by Florence + the Machine.


End file.
